This year, I’ve been thinking less about what I should accomplish and more about what I want to lean into. I keep asking myself: What feels fun? What feels alive? What makes me want to show up and play? So here it is—26 things I’m looking forward to in 2026, written without overthinking it and with plenty of room for surprise.
- A playful space. There’s a tiny Polly Pocket in my studio, subtly judging my grown-up seriousness. Fun fact: the first prototype came from a vintage compact a dad gave his daughter. Every glance is a reminder: your day can be full of tiny, delightful mischief if you let it.
- More fun, for its own sake. Renting a historic trolley to take friends, clients, and anyone curious on our annual Dogwood Trail: two laps—one in the daylight to bask in the blooms, one after dark when the flowers are spotlighted like tiny stage performers. Champagne in hand, a curated playlist filling the trolley, laughter bouncing off the seats… and a refurbished vintage Dogwood makeup compact waiting as a door prize at the end. Pure, unapologetic fun.
- Exploring a year of beauty beyond “special occasions.” Forget weddings and holiday stress. Beauty can be playful. At Cloud Dancer, A Blank Canvas Afternoon, the studio is a cloud: soft light, harp music drifting, Color of the Year eyeshadow waiting. Sip, nibble, doodle in your journal, experiment with color—an hour to play, pause, and let curiosity lead. Keepsake eyeshadow and aphorism card included, because magic loves small tokens.
- Slow mornings that belong only to me. One page of journaling each morning with Tuba, my huge orange kitty, purring in my lap. Then I read what I wrote a year ago today, laughing at my younger self, circling the sentences I actually need to pay attention to. After listing five things I’m grateful for, I lift at the gym or go on a walk, letting that morning reflection and playful energy ripple into the rest of my day.
- Protecting my creative energy like it matters-because it does. Candle lit, cello music drifting through my office, my 2pm–5pm sacred slot for creative scouting. Mondays are for thrifting adventures with fellow female business owners, discovering treasures while the world in our studios quiets down. I make digital invites in Paperless Post, even for small friend hang nights, because marking a moment as special turns it into energy. I surround myself with the books that changed me, letting them sit beside me or opening to a random page for guidance. When my energy gets blocked (always from too many outside demands ) I get cranky and tired fast, a reminder that this time is sacred. These hours are mine: playful, intentional, and brimming with possibility.
- Creating makeup experiences that feel more like world-building than appointments. On clear days, sunlight finds the vintage disco ball and scatters tiny mirrors of light across the walls. It’s brief, unpredictable, and completely transformative. The room feels different. People feel different. I’ve long been sensitive to how spaces affect us—especially the dullness and tension I feel in doctor’s offices and hospital rooms. I understand why they’re designed that way. Surfaces must be sterile, controlled, easily cleaned. But I’ve always wondered what gets lost when beauty is removed from places meant for care. This studio is my experiment in answering that question: a space where light, reflection, and surprise are not merely decorative, but essential.
- Philosophical, ethical, connected, creative conversations. I wrote a blog post titled “If I were you”—But You’re Not on how all advice is really just autobiographical—and the very next client gave it back to me in real time: we’re all just bouncing advice off ourselves. I place tiny clock hands on the handheld mirror I give clients, usually set at midnight, so they pause, focus, and witness the moment before their own face. Beauty becomes a conversation about perception, perspective, and the stories we carry, sometimes hilarious, sometimes profound, always surprising.
- The kind of magic where nothing changes and everything changes. During a Private Makeup Lesson, it’s always in the little things—the “aha” moment when I show someone where to hold the brush, how a slight mirror tilt unlocks the ability to apply false lashes, or when I ask them to put their phone on silent and their shoulders drop. Sometimes it’s later, when they pull a refurbished vintage compact from their purse and realize they’re carrying a beautiful piece of history. Small shifts, big feeling.
- Discovering the human through-line. It shows up mid-appointment, when the right question opens a door and a certain access is granted. Eye contact softens. A smile appears. Someone says, “I never thought of it that way before,” or “That makes sense,” or laughs and says, “What a good analogy.” Different lives, same relief: oh—you get it.
- Practicing beauty as thoughtfulness and hospitality. “Do Not Disturb” goes on the doors, the lock turns, and the world outside gently pauses. I arrive an hour early so nothing feels rushed—candle lit, playlist humming, Post-its ready with names and notes. Water offered. Lip balm wrapped like a tiny keepsake. A soft spritz of frankincense as a blessing. Follow-up emails sent. Thank-you cards written by hand. None of it is grand on its own, but together it says what words don’t have to: you are welcome here. It feels like a homecoming—warm, attentive, alive. This isn’t a stepping stone. This is the gig.
- Turning branded thank-you cards into tiny epilogues. After the experience ends, I keep the conversation going on paper. Quotable lines drift into the margins. Highlightable moments resurface. Sometimes it’s something they said, something I learned, or an inside joke only the two of us would recognize. I write in cursive—romantic on purpose—and sign my name with a red lipstick kiss print, a small flourish at the end of the story. A light spritz of frankincense blesses the card before it’s sealed, so when it’s opened later, the moment returns with it.
- Making Lover’s Eye art. Miniature frames on the table. Cropping a photo until only the eye remains—a modern twist on the Victorian tradition of hand-painted eye miniatures, once made so a single glance could carry a secret. Writing a tiny poem about the loved one. Some become gifts. Some become personal keepsakes. Holding that tender focus feels like a private love ritual: playful, intimate, full of heart. Winking at history, whispering a secret, making someone feel seen in a way only you can. And yes—there’s a Paperless Post invite ready to turn this into a little studio of love and art.
- Writing my book. My kitchen table holding endless blog drafts spilling over. Creative photoshoots with a friend—images talking to words, words talking back. Conversations with strangers, overheard lines, tiny sparks of curiosity. Moments of surprise when a paragraph lands fully formed, like the universe nudged me awake. My own version of “I couldn’t help but wonder”—the phrase changes, but the feeling is the same: noticing, reflecting, asking, leaning in. Modern-day Carrie Bradshaw energy: walking the town, observing, listening, then coming home to sit and type about the beauty, color, curiosity. Printed, bound, published, held in my hands in physical form. Goal: in time for my 40th birthday.
- Learning to cut glass. Prepping a station, planning a budget, and plotting the process. Crossing my fingers that my boyfriend actually wants to do this—and maybe secretly hoping he learns this trade for me. Imagining the shimmer of light along a perfect edge, the patience it will demand, the precision it will teach. For now, it’s all anticipation—daydreaming of tiny luminous creations, the perfect fit for the refurbished vintage compacts that need mirrors replaced, and maybe a little his-and-hers crossover business in the making.
- Becoming a daily “beauty scout.” Hitting the pavement, exploring, noticing colors, textures, tiny surprises. Reporting back with quick notes, photos, or videos. Sometimes, right after I dive into something creative for myself, the world winks: a car rolls by with the license plate ART, or I spot a crumpled bill on the sidewalk and say, “Abundance is among us!”—rhyme, ritual, joy. I like to view the day like RSVPs to an event: the consistencies and changes, the little rhythms and accidents, all part of the art of living.
- More room for goofiness and randomness. Delight interrupting the plan. Essence dressing—selecting outfits that embody the personality of a space’s interior. Parties where everyone chooses a colored tulle dressing robe to wear, twirling and laughing, feeling absurdly magical. Quoting Charlie the Unicorn with my bestie and Jude the little hard worker to Justin. Letting laughter be a practice—tiny, silly moments that connect, heal, and remind us that joy is part of the work too.
- Pinky Promises with myself. Showing up to create, to learn, and to keep my own word. Blocking out consistent time—the real elixir of creativity. Journaling, experimenting in the studio, photographing, making notes, underlining, screenshotting the little sparks that catch my eye as they pass. And here’s the kicker: coming back to them later. Circling what still hums. Noticing the patterns, the repeats, the quiet themes asking for attention. Tiny loops of focus, delight, and discovery— proof that I’m worth showing up for, again and again.
- Honoring the pace of the page. To stay in relationship with it. Returning again and again, one word at a time, while honoring the paradox that time away from the page still belongs to the page. To be a good writer, you have to be a good reader. To be a good reader, a good noticer. And to be a good noticer, you have to be genuinely interested—because interest is what makes someone interesting. Walking, listening, reading, overhearing, living… then coming back. The space between isn’t a break from the work; it’s part of it. A question I keep close: “What is it that I can’t not do?”
- Travel. Letting new places rearrange my thinking. Morning light wide-eyed and hopeful, evening light dimmer and moody, like the trip has been felt. Touching up my makeup in a souvenir compact etched with the map of the state I’m in—tiny ritual, tiny anchor. The ship looks the same, but everything inside me has shifted. Distance and difference are the secret tonic of creativity, and when I come home, nothing looks changed—but my brain, my eyes, my hands have seen something new.
- Savoring simplicity. Choosing presence over accumulation, noticing what’s already enough. Rising early, before anyone else is awake, the house quiet and nothing on in the background. Reading in bed, nurturing a good night’s sleep so I can drift into REM, dream fully, and wake up remembering it—writing it down, analyzing the fragments, the surprises, the little sparks that only show up when there’s space to notice. Slowing down to speed up: creating room for clarity, insight, and delight before the day even begins.
- Skill as a form of autonomy. Private makeup lessons where the goal is less about superficial transformation, and more about fluency. Learning how to adapt a look for different light, different moods, and different days. When you understand your tools, you stop needing permission, and beauty becomes something you decide when to use, not something that uses you.
- Offering room for freedom of expression. Life as a person—wearing something that speaks to you, simply because it feels like you, not anyone else. Solo dates, reading other people’s blogs, listening to podcasts, letting ideas, colors, and moods drift in without judgment. Spaces—whether a class, a studio, or a quiet corner of your own day—where curiosity and delight get to roam free. Guilty pleasures welcome, but remove the guilt!
- Welcoming serendipity, spontaneity, synchronicity, eucatastrophe, and expansiveness. Saying yes to whatever surprises appear. Leaving space between the “to do” list, letting the world invite itself in. Several people have told me, “Something you said stuck with me,” moments I couldn’t have scheduled or predicted. Choosing openness over back-to-back meetings has let new writers, therapists, and kindred spirits find me. Last-minute opportunities—dreams I didn’t even think I’d get—slip through because there’s space for them. Tiny accidents, small conversations, unexpected sparks—these are the magic I chase. Case in point: the annual Beauty Egg Hunt, where hidden treasures delight participants and proceeds benefit Look Good Feel Better. Randomness, joy, and a little good in the world all rolled into one.
- Modeling the work by walking it. Showing what’s possible instead of just talking about it. Making a calendar, laying out each step leading up to a project, and following it myself but making it fun: stickers, collages, quotes, and countdowns. Clients and friends see the prep, the pacing, the tiny rituals, the follow-through. They are the recipients.
- Being found by chance—or by story. When someone discovers what I offer through curiosity, recommendation, or pure coincidence. Yoga class, the gym, cocktail hours, art gatherings, crossover clients with industry friends—little threads of my spider web connecting in ways I can’t always predict. Each introduction is a reminder that discovery is often accidental, delightful, and entirely outside my control. What a relief!
- Mini experiments. Tiny creative adventures just for the sake of seeing what happens. Trying a color combo I wouldn’t normally wear, swapping a ritual for a new one, testing a different medium in art or journaling, or even rearranging furniture. No pressure, no rules—just curiosity and delight. Little sparks that could turn into bigger surprises, or maybe just make an ordinary Tuesday feel extraordinary.
If any of this feels like something you’re craving more of in 2026, know that there’s space for you here—whether one-on-one, in a small gathering, or through a shared experience that unfolds slowly and intentionally. I’m looking forward to meeting you or reconnecting, however the story brings us together.
Photo: Imagine Images Photo